Cri. Stabb'd with a thousand daggers;
My heart, my lights, my liver, aud my skin,
Pierc'd like a sieve.
Pan. Here's not a wound: stand up,
'Tis but thy fear.
Cri. 'Tis but one wound all over:
Softly, O, softly! You have lost the truest servant.—
Farewell, I die.
Alb. Live by my courtesy; stand up and breathe.
The dangerous and malignant influence is pass'd:
But thank my charity, that put by the blows,
The least of which threaten'd a dozen graves.
Now learn to scoff [no more] divine astrology,
And slight her servants!
Cri. A surgeon, good sir, a surgeon.
Alb. Stand up, man, th' hast no harm; my life for thine.
Pan. Th' art well, th' art well.
Cri. Now I perceive I am:
I pray you pardon me, divine astrologer.
Alb. I do: but henceforth laugh [not] at astrology,
And call her servants cheaters.
Pan. Now to our business. On, good Albumazar.